


Off the cuff

by Beginte



Series: Winters at the Academy [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Geralt plays tourist at the Academy and has a good day, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), for once, reuniting after winter, they're just happy and horny okay, wearing each other's clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: When their conversation ends, they sit quietly for a while, sated with good food and each other's company. Jaskier's foot is pressed along Geralt's under the table, and it all would be very relaxing if Jaskier didn't keep looking at him like he was dessert."What," Geralt snaps, feeling treacherous heat creep up his neck.Or: Geralt has a lazy morning at the Academy and ends up wearing Jaskier's clothes. He's also terribly in love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Winters at the Academy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856737
Comments: 71
Kudos: 543





	Off the cuff

**Author's Note:**

> Another title I had in mind for this fic was _A Wolf in a Bard's clothing_ , until Castillon02 made me toss a coin to decide.

Geralt should look more carefully when he picks up the first thing on the floor to clean them up with after sex.

It’s all because of impatience. Thaw came early this year, and Geralt led Roach down the mountains and they made haste straight for Oxenfurt. At the Academy the winter semester was still going on, but Geralt couldn’t wait, the smell of spring potent and heady in the air, his brain full of Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier.

He stabled Roach, overpaying generously in his hurry and not giving a single fuck, and outright _ran_ to where he caught a flash of vibrant blue making for the faculty accommodation quarters.

When Jaskier saw him, he broke out into a sun-bright grin, and Geralt barrelled towards him and swept him into a hungry embrace, rubbing travel grime all over Jaskier's nice colourful clothes. Jaskier laughed pure joy in Geralt's ear, pulled on his hair, tilted his head back so he could kiss him, and Geralt kissed right back. It was artless, because they were both grinning like idiots and Geralt was still holding Jaskier up, off the ground, blocking a public path. It was just what Geralt had been wanting for weeks.

"Oh, gods, your smell," groaned Jaskier, loudly, but the way he greedily pushed his nose into Geralt's neck didn't suggest he meant it as a grievance. "Put me down, you brute! I want you naked, and I can't do it in public."

So Geralt had no choice but to comply and follow Jaskier as he tugged him by the wrist into the building and up the stairs into his rooms.

Re-mapping Jaskier's body after a season apart is a rare pleasure, purchased with the discontent of separation, so when it happens Geralt makes the most of it. They rarely ever spend winters apart anymore, but every now and then circumstances align to demand it, and upon reunion Jaskier somehow always turns out to be even lovelier than Geralt's memories supplied. His flesh is soft, yielding under Geralt’s playful nipping or when he digs his fingers into Jaskier’s hips; his arms and legs are graceful in their movements but solid and seasoned by life on the road and the tavern brawls he seems to keep starting.

His thighs are as strong and beautiful as ever, and Geralt happily buried himself between them last night, kissing and dragging his hands over them, feeling the hardness of muscle under the softness of winter-easy flesh. He _bit_ , Jaskier’s moan mingled with a laugh, and Geralt looked up at him through his lashes as he slowly licked the sore spot, fine hair coarse on his tongue.

Perfect. So fucking perfect, and Geralt was drunk on Jaskier more than any booze.

They were both breathless with their reunion, stupid with the tang of spring in the air, and they rolled all over the bed, until finally Geralt slotted himself between Jaskier’s thighs again and took both their cocks in hand. It was over very quickly after that, and it still was perfect.

Jaskier briefly threw on his clothes to bring them some food from the kitchens; they ate in bed, licking grease and sticky sugar from dried fruit off each other’s fingers, and downed half a bottle of wine between them.

And then, later in the night, Geralt rode Jaskier with complete abandon, until Jaskier half-laughed and half-sobbed, uttering curses and encouragements in turn, hands sliding up Geralt’s thighs, holding onto his hips, spurring Geralt on with a tight burn in the pit of his stomach.

Jaskier laughed a little, dazed and sated after Geralt had cursorily wiped them down with whatever piece of cloth his hand found on the floor.

“It’s really good to have you back, my dear,” he said when they lay together in his bed, legs tangled, muscles loose with pleasure well-fed.

“Hmm,” said Geralt, brushing his nose over Jaskier’s, slowly and deliberately, just because he could. “I missed you,” he added then, almost surprising himself, but not really.

Jaskier laughed lightly again. “So I can gather.”

Geralt’s lips twitched in an answering smile. He nuzzled into a kiss, soft and slow and sweet with the quiet sound of Jaskier’s pleasure. Jaskier stroked his hair when they parted, and Geralt allowed sleep to start gathering in his bones.

“I still have three weeks left before the semester is out,” Jaskier told him.

Geralt hummed, no longer trying to keep his eyes open. “I know,” he said, because he always knew Jaskier’s winter schedule by heart. “I’ll stay with you and wait.” He opened one eye. “If that’s all right.”

Jaskier smiled, brilliant and full of love, in that way which always made Geralt think himself a cretin for every day he’d spent denying himself the treasure that is Jaskier.

“I suppose I’ll try and put up with you.”

Geralt grunted, nuzzled closer into Jaskier, and fell asleep on the spot.

* * *

Mornings at the Academy, Geralt discovered the first time he was invited into Jaskier’s scholarly bed, begin early and _loudly_.

At six in the morning precisely, a man with inordinate amounts of energy walks the corridors of faculty living quarters and rings a hand-held bell that clatters and bangs and bellows and wails loud enough to raise the dead. Let alone a witcher with very fine hearing.

Geralt groans and pushes his head under the pillow, because it’s still dark outside and the bell is splitting glass inside his brain. Beside him, Jaskier moans and tries to join him under the pillow, but Geralt keeps it tight over his ears; Jaskier can find his own.

“Swear on Melitele’s tits, one day I’ll wring that bell-ringer’s neck. Hmm. Get it?” He nudges Geralt for good measure. “Wring—"

“Yes,” mumbles Geralt from the safe place where the world is dark and surrounding him closely. “Hilarious. You should write a comedy.”

“You jest,” says Jaskier, much more freshly than he has any right to at this hour, “but Priscilla and I have been collaborating on a new play. It’s going into rehearsal tomorrow and should be ready by the time the semester ends. Maybe you can come see.”

He pats Geralt’s arse, which at least sends a pleasurable twinge through it, but not enough to bribe Geralt out of hiding while that fucking bellringer prowls the building. Geralt can hear him all the way in the eastern wing now.

Jaskier leaves him be, and if that’s not a gesture of love, Geralt doesn’t know what is. He listens from under the pillow to the sounds of Jaskier lighting the oil lamp to stave off winter’s dark and cold morning; water sloshes as he pours it into the washbasin from a jug; razor scrapes as he shaves. He hums while he gets dressed, something new he’s probably working on, and Geralt slowly lets one end of the pillow go so he can only just peek out, though he’d never admit he’s being lured by Jaskier’s song. Honestly, his bard has no business being part-fae; he should be part-siren. But that’s between Geralt and the pillow.

Papers rustle on Jaskier’s desk as he gathers them into a satchel, and then he crosses the room to where Geralt dropped his pack last night to pounce on Jaskier. Unceremoniously, he starts rooting through it to pull out the clothes. They're all dirty, and Geralt blinks at him with unapologetic laziness when Jaskier turns to look.

"You really should own more than two sets of clothes, you know," he tells him, bundling it all up with his own shirt and trousers and smallclothes discarded all over the floor last night. "I'll pop them in the laundry room on my way. Join me for breakfast in the dining hall?"

"Hmm."

"Yes, that's what I thought." His tone is a pretence of exasperation, but there's a smile curling his lips (soft, soft lips) and a twinkle in his eyes. "You just wait here for me and look pretty. What do you say, shall we skip the dining hall for now and meet for lunch at the tavern? You know the one."

"Mmhmm," Geralt rumbles, content and warm all over; Jaskier's smile feels like the sun rising early.

"So." Jaskier slings the satchel over his shoulder and spreads his arms to present his outfit. "Do I look professional?"

"No."

"Perfect. Have a nice morning, my dear. I'll count the minutes until lunch." He takes the pillow off Geralt's head completely, drops a disarmingly sweet kiss on his cheek, and then leaves.

The room abruptly feels quiet (the bellringer has finally fucked off; Geralt has three weeks to plan how to kill him), but only for a moment. Geralt pushes his nose into Jaskier's pillow and drifts for a while, breathing his scent. It's a bit different at the Academy, Jaskier's scent is. More vanillin from old books, and the dust comes from shelves rather than the road. There's less old sweat and residual grime. Less Roach.

Less Geralt.

Well. Geralt has three weeks to rub off on Jaskier in the Academy in all the ways they can think of, and then also most of the year to rub the road off on both of them. And maybe longer. He's already determined to take Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen for the next winter.

He half-dozes, pausing on that enjoyable thought; he listens to the muffled noises of other academics stepping out of their rooms and beginning their day. Doors slamming, footsteps thudding, flyaway bits of conversation floating past his door. (Jaskier's door.) It's a strange set of morning sounds, unlike anything he'd ever heard in his own life until the first time he spent a winter night in Jaskier's bed at the Academy. Even now, a few years later, the sounds are still foreign and intriguing. Eventually though, they too fall away as all the academics set out into their day, and Geralt is left mostly alone in this part of the building.

He gets up and washes up in the basin where Jaskier left half the water in the jug for him. The water in the basin turns a bit murky when he squeezes out the washcloth. At least moderately cleaned, he picks up his pack and takes it to Jaskier's desk; he's still naked, but Jaskier's rooms are on the storey, with a view of the winter-dormant gardens, so there isn't much risk of anyone catching a scandalised sight of him. And if they do, well. That's their own fault.

(Geralt won't really admit, even to himself, that he wouldn't mind. Being seen naked in Jaskier's rooms, an unequivocal statement of just what Jaskier does with his song-famous witcher. Of how _Jaskier's_ Geralt is.)

He unpacks what few items he's brought and puts them away on shelves; he'll be here three weeks, no point in pretending he's on the road. Pretending Jaskier's Academy rooms are no different from the uncaring transience and anonymity of an inn.

The swords he pushes under the bed, where he can reach them, just in case. They clink against something that turns out to be the dagger he'd given Jaskier for his twenty-fifth birthday and which Jaskier always travels with; he smiles.

A bell (a different one, thank fuck – it's the Academy's bell tower which keeps time during the day and leaves well enough alone at night) rings the hour, and Geralt is probably the only witcher on the Continent who knows that this means students and professors alike will be pouring into lecture halls and classrooms now. He thinks about Jaskier being one of them and stands by the window to see if Jaskier's first lecture of the day takes him across the gardens, but it doesn't.

Students mingle and migrate in groups, one or two of them barrelling at full sprint to get to a faraway building; in three minutes, the gardens are empty again; if Geralt focuses, he can hear doors slamming closed in the nearest lecture building.

He picks a book from Jaskier's piling bookcase and grunts happily as he drops backwards onto the bed. He reads the time away, pausing every now and then, first to turn out the light when the sun finally crawls its way over the horizon and high enough in the cloud-covered sky, then to eat something or have a drink or take a piss. It's... a completely different sort of morning than any others in his life, even in Kaer Morhen. It's still novel, no matter that he's experienced dozens of them over the years by now. There's _nothing to do_. And he bizarrely fucking likes it.

When the Academy's bell chimes half past eleven, he's done with the book and beginning to feel hungry. The remnants of his and Jaskier's night-time picnic were dainty, and he's eaten them all, and the lunch hour is approaching, so he goes about getting dressed to leave for the tavern.

Which is how he finds himself in his predicament.

The trousers are perfectly serviceable when he pulls them on, but when he picks up last night's shirt, he finds it, well, out of commission. Because there's a huge fucking come stain on it.

Contrary to what Jaskier says, Geralt doesn't wear all black just because it's 'roguish' or 'devilishly handsome' (Jaskier's words, not his). It's simply because black doesn't stand out, doesn't attract any extra attention in addition to his white hair and off-putting yellow eyes that have people whispering and shuffling warily away. The second reason is even simpler: blood doesn't show on black and a simple wash will do.

Come, however...

Geralt sighs through his nose, lips pressed together as he inspects the shirt. No, there's no hiding either the stain _or_ what it was made by. And, because Geralt's own actions always come back to bite him on the arse, he stain is big beyond all concealment and smeared all over the front, because where else, of course.

He really should try to make better decisions when fucked out of his mind.

His stomach growls at him in agreement, and he pauses to think. He knows where the laundry room is, but it's highly unlikely they're done with his clothes so soon, not to mention he still would need to put _something_ on to get there – he can't very well parade down accommodation corridors half-naked. He imagines Jaskier's already dubious reputation can only withstand so much.

There's only one course of action available, really, and he sighs again as he turns to glare at Jaskier's wardrobe. It's not that he even remotely thinks Jaskier would mind. Of course he wouldn't. Knowing him, the bastard will have a ball out of this. And it isn't that he dislikes Jaskier's clothes either. On the contrary, he enjoys them very much. _On Jaskier_.

With a third sigh, he opens the wardrobe to reveal an orgy of colour. He goes through the shirts until he finds the darkest and least decorative one available. It's a deep, dark blue, with minimal ornamentation around the neckline and the cuffs done in slightly lighter blue. By Jaskier's sartorial standards, it's subdued enough for a funeral.

Finding that Jaskier's fine shirt fits him so well feels like it should be surprising, but it isn't really. Jaskier is by no means dainty or waifish. He's strong and fit from walking the Path and carrying his lute for miles and years. He's is almost as well-built as Geralt is, though he doesn't show it, choosing to dress in colourful, form-fitting clothes that show off the trimness of his figure rather than its strength. So it really isn't a surprise that his shirt sits on Geralt well enough. True, he can't exactly do up all the buttons across his chest, but when the fuck has _Jaskier_ ever done that, so, in a way, this is fitting as well.

The shirt may _fit_ fine enough, but whether it _suits_ is another matter. Jaskier is beautiful and knows very well how to show it off.

Geralt, on the other hand...

He lifts his eyes to meet the mirror with a glare. Which is a mistake, because this way he looks even less like he belongs in this fine, well-made shirt. Wincing a little, he pulls out the tie from where two rounds of eager sex got it mercilessly knotted into his hair; he combs through the mess with his fingers, pulls tousled and wild tresses more or less under control, and ties them off in his usual way.

Marginally better.

It still doesn't look right though. The shirt is elegant and well made, a dark colour to bring out the deeper blues in Jaskier's eyes. Geralt's glow an even more eerie yellow than usual. The ornaments, subdued as they are, sit gracefully. It's too fine for Geralt who is as coarse as the monsters he hunts. He runs a finger along a line of ornamentation around the cuff. On Jaskier, the shirt looks serious with understated elegance. On Geralt, it looks downright frilly.

The doublet is an even trickier affair. Jaskier's shoulders may be broad and his arms strong, but Geralt's are nonetheless a little bulkier, and the doublet is tailored into a slim fit, so the fabric stretches around Geralt's muscles. Fuck. He hopes he won't ruin it. He could forgo it altogether, because the cold won't be an issue for him, but he doesn't fancy getting even more stares.

He makes himself look in the mirror once more. He's just thinking he looks fucking ridiculous when a movement of air brings a waft of Jaskier's scent brushing past his nose, and Geralt takes it in, and oh. Suddenly, a pleasing thought coils in his stomach.

Because everyone will know. Everyone who sees him and who knows Jaskier, will know that Geralt is wearing his clothes. Belongs to Jaskier. He feels marked and it feels... good. Like marking Jaskier's neck with his lips and teeth, only directed at himself, and potent in an intriguingly different way.

It's close to the lunch hour, so he sets out before he can talk himself out of that nice thought. The Academy grounds are milling with students and professors, most of them bound for the dining hall, but plenty standing in groups and chatting or making their way somewhere else.

And nobody pays him any mind.

The month may still belong to winter on the calendar, but the air is fragrant with spring and warm enough for cloaks to be slung over shoulders now that the morning's chill is gone, and Geralt encounters more than one unbuttoned doublet on his way to the tavern.

The tavern serves excellent food and there's a decent crowd inside, but the din of conversations doesn't hush when he enters. He doesn't get stares. Nobody finds his clothes puzzling or his presence unwelcome. A lady professor whose face he vaguely recognises raises a hand at him in greeting and helpfully gestures to where Jaskier is sitting, as if Geralt doesn't follow the steady thrum of his heartbeat, as if Geralt doesn't know where Jaskier is in a room the instant he steps into it. Still, he appreciates the friendliness, so he nods at her before he makes his way over to Jaskier's table.

Jaskier's smile is warm, but it changes into surprise and then merciless delight when Geralt approaches, so Geralt really has no choice but to scowl when he takes a seat. (It doesn't for a moment escape his notice that the table offers the best vantage point of the tavern, or that the seat Jaskier left for him makes the best use of it.)

"Hello, my love," Jaskier says innocently, and Geralt would glare, but he's being pulled into a kiss, and he's missed Jaskier for three sore months, so he kisses back greedily. "Mmm," says Jaskier when they break apart, his voice a little hoarse in a way that makes Geralt lick the taste of him off his lips. "And may I add, you look gorgeous."

Geralt growls at him, refuses to feel sheepish. He fails.

"I... had to improvise."

"Well, your improvisation skills could put Priscilla's theatre students to shame. You look lovely, and your eyes..." Jaskier bites his lip, gives him a look of such earnest delight that Geralt doesn't try to hide in his ale as he drinks it.

They order their food, which is excellent and served in hearty portions meant to keep the largely academic clientele going until the late dinner time. The Academy's lunch hour actually lasts a generous ninety minutes, which means Geralt and Jaskier aren't in a hurry.

Jaskier chats, talks about his lectures, moans about the Madam Rector having some unreasonable expectations, mentions a promising student. Geralt tells him about the book he's read, and they talk about it for a while as their food gradually disappears from their plates.

It's... nice.

It's a taste of a strange life. Strange, but good. Geralt doesn't think he could live it full time, and Jaskier couldn't either; they're both made for the Path, Geralt with his swords and Jaskier with his songs. (Maybe one day, when they both fancy retirement, decades from now. Or centuries. They aren't in a rush. Not like either of them will run out of years anytime soon.) But it's nice to taste it every now and then, in a vaguely exotic way. Maybe they could alternate their winters: spend one at Kaer Morhen and then one at the Academy, and so on. He makes a note to bring it up with Jaskier one day. After he's thought about it some more.

When their conversation ends, they sit quietly for a while, sated with good food and each other's company. Jaskier's foot is pressed along Geralt's under the table, and it all would be very relaxing if Jaskier didn't keep looking at him like he was dessert.

"What," Geralt snaps, feeling treacherous heat creep up his neck.

"Oh, nothing," replies Jaskier in a voice like velvet. "I just finally understand why you like it so much when I put on your shirt."

Geralt does like it. So much so that even thinking about it now redirects some of the blood from his cheeks back down and then further south. Jaskier sometimes puts on Geralt's shirt for bed in colder weather, and they never, _ever_ go to sleep quickly when that happens. Geralt swallows, recalling how the black contrasts against Jaskier's apple-healthy skin, how the undone top buttons show Jaskier's chest and the dark hair on it, how his shoulders round out and how the hem brushes his solid thighs, just low enough to hide his arse and cock from view.

Hmm.

Something pleasurable tickles inside Geralt when he considers this; Jaskier's lip is caught between his teeth, and Geralt sits up a little straighter, stops hunching and trying to make himself smaller, hide the clothing in his shadow. Jaskier's eyes stay on him, dark blue lit up by a single, focused, smouldering gleam.

"Well..." Geralt says, making it a slow drawl. "In fairness, when you put on my shirt, you don't put on anything else..."

Jaskier's smile is slow enough to match. "Fair point. And seeing as I, cruelly, must go back to teaching in twenty minutes, how about you find yourself something to do until, say, a quarter to three? Because, Geralt, I only have one lecture left today, and I'd like to see you in my rooms in nothing but my shirt when I get back."

Geralt pretends to give it some thought.

"That sounds doable."

"Good."

When they part near the Academy gates, Geralt makes it a point to kiss Jaskier just a little more filthily than a renown Oxenfurt Academy professor ought to be kissed in public. Jaskier looks flushed and delighted, and he chips yet further away at his reputation by giving Geralt's arse a playful swat as he sends him off on his way. Geralt walks about thirty feet before he realises he has no concept of where he's going.

He _doesn't_ find something to do. He forces himself to take a turn about the marketplace, but there are too many smells and voices and sights that scrape on the anticipation exposing his nerves. He follows the river thickened with the first of the incoming snowmelt to a quiet bridge out of the way of the main roads; Jaskier had brought him here the first time he spent a few days with him at the Academy, precisely because of how quiet this spot is.

Geralt watches the water flow under the small stone structure, and allows the pleasant tingle of anticipation in his blood to tip over into impatience. When that's done (and it doesn't take long, because it's not even yet twenty-four hours since he and Jaskier reunited), he makes straight for the Academy and the building where Jaskier's rooms are.

The first thing he does is shrug out of the doublet, because that does still feel ridiculous. The shirt... a little less so. Now that he knows it's going to be fun. It would feel idiotic to sprawl on the bed and wait (he doesn't have Jaskier's flamboyance or his easy courage), so he snoops and noses around Jaskier's desk until he hears his footsteps. He moves to the centre of the room, and drops his trousers when Jaskier opens the door.

Jaskier laughs at him, drops his satchel, kicks the door shut, and Geralt meets him with a grin when he slams into his arms.

"Oh, gods, I love you," Jaskier says into his mouth.

"Hmm," Geralt agrees, biting on Jaskier's bottom lip when Jaskier's hands slide down to grip his naked arse.

He walks backwards, pulling Jaskier towards the bed, and they tumble gracelessly onto it like the pair of idiots they are.

They're always like this when they reunite after a winter apart: eager and horny and giddy with each other and with the endlessness of a year or more together stretching before them. Geralt pulls on the ties on the back of Jaskier's breeches, groaning his happy encouragement when Jaskier's hands push under the flimsy material of the shirt, dragging it up as he palms Geralt's back.

"Gorgeous, you look gorgeous," mumbles Jaskier, lips and breath and words hot on Geralt's cheek, and Geralt tilts towards them, catches them in a fever-needy kiss. "All mine," Jaskier says against his lips, and it kicks hot in the pit of Geralt's stomach.

There's a smug curl to Jaskier's smile when he cards a hand through Geralt's hair, looks him over hot and promising, and that's when something flickers in the one corner of Geralt's mind that's not yet completely stupid with the bard in his lap.

"You shit," he rumbles affectionately into Jaskier's neck, then licks slow and hot just under his ear; Jaskier shivers. "You did it on purpose."

"Hmm?" Jaskier pretends not to hear or understand, and it's so blatant that Geralt lets him off the hook.

But Geralt can be a shit too. So when they're done fucking later that afternoon, he purposely uses the borrowed shirt to clean them up; Jaskier laughs and laughs and laughs, and Geralt almost falls asleep to the sound.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise not all fics in this series will be about Geralt having Emotional Relationships with clothes.
> 
> Also: I love these idiots. So, so much. Join me in screaming about their love <3


End file.
